It’s almost easy being back in the tender arms of the Lagoon, almost. And that’s only because aside from my brief meeting with the worlds happiest beta, all the other merry men seem to have given me a wide birth. Judging by the various scents that have worn on the terrain I don’t have any old acquaintances or awkward run-ins to worry about anyway. Even so I have managed to keep to myself, picking through the brush that partially frames the Lagoon from the outside world.

The grub is dismal beneath the thicket, not much better inland either but the hollowness in my guts pushes me through the barricade of branches, twigs and vines and into the dreary day in search of food. Grey clouds loom above, layering themselves in front of the sun and casting heavy shadows across my path. Without the restrictions from the thick patch of scrub I’ve claimed as my own, I allow my bulky grey frame to relax and my neck to extend to its natural position. It might be truth that I am no longer as young and vibrant as I once was but the years have been kind to me. My burley physique, credited to the years spent battling alone, is yet to be affected by gravity or age and though my dapples are almost extinct among my greying pelt, my points still remain dark with only the slightest hint of fading. I step into a comfortable two beat gait following the tree line that separates the meeting grounds and the man cave.

Through the slop and the mud I search for the path worn by frequent use, the route most brutes take to either travel to the commons or inland to the water source. I round onto the path leading towards the lagoon and am immediately confronted by what appears to be two young lads barely off their mother’s teats. I take the bounce from my step and awkwardly step out of my trot, my skull jerking with every jolted step as I hold it high observing the boys.

Makings friends is not on my to-do list while being back in the lagoon and even though I would normally embrace my bluntness and simply turn away, I am well aware that one of these tadpoles might belong to the boss. Don’t want to seem unsociable now do we. ”Fella’s” I acknowledge them both as I bridge the gap between us, my stride slowing on approach but not pausing until I tower over the duo. I observe them both in turn and it would seem that first impressions lie.

The lighter toned of the two; although he holds much the same qualities as his younger companion his orbs tell of a different story. For a moment I am fixed on something hidden behind the dunskin eyes, something formidable and unnerving- a very different story indeed. I keep my thoughts hidden behind my relaxed expression and turn to the small roan. With shoulders squared I grin casually, ”How’s it hangin’?” My vocals gruffly bubble from the depths of my chest but much like my demeanour it lacks any aggression.

FRIESIAN MUTT | SIXTEEN TWO HANDS | TWELVE YEARS